Dead Coup d'État

by Dane Hatchell

  Dead Coup d’État

  Dane Hatchell

  This story is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 Dane Hatchell

  Cover Copyright © P.A. Douglas

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this story may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  From Severed Press:

  From Severed Press:

  Other titles by the author:

  Resurrection X: Zombie Evolution

  A Gentleman’s Privilege: Zombies in the Old South

  A Werewolf in our Midst

  Apocalypse³

  Club Dead: Zombie Isle

  Dead Coup d’État

  Dreaming of an Undead Christmas

  It Came from Black Swamp

  Lord of the Flies: A Zombie Story

  Love Prevails: A Zombie Nightmare

  Pheromone and Rotten

  Red Rain

  Soul Mates

  The Garden of Fear

  The Last Savior

  The Turning of Dick Condon

  Time and Tide: A Fractured Fairy Tale

  Two Big Foot Tales

  Two Demented Fish Tales

  Zombies of Iwo Jima

  Zombie God of the Jungle

  Zombie’s Honor

  Dead Coup d’État

  The sun was just beginning to set on the horizon and brought with it a close to the first day of October. A gentle breeze cool and crisp carried a falling leaf to the ground. The darkness of night slowly smothered the last light of day.

  Three members of the Third United States Infantry were in the final stages of the Changing of the Guard at the Tomb of the Unknowns in Arlington Cemetery. The cemetery closed to the public at 5 PM, but the ceremony would continue even with no audience present.

  The impeccably uniformed Relief Commander and the relieving Sentinel met the Retiring Sentinel at the center of a black matted path, in front of the seventy nine ton Tomb sarcophagus. The three soldiers turned in unison and together brought their right feet up and stamped them sharply back to the ground. Now facing the west end of the memorial, their three arms snapped up in salute.

  Engraved in the white marble:

  ‘Here Rests In Honored Glory

  An American Soldier

  Known But to God’

  The ritual to honor the fallen dead had not been interrupted since its inception in 1937. It continued twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and at the minimum of once an hour. The motto of the Tomb Guards being: ‘Soldiers never die until they are forgotten, Tomb Guards never forget.’

  “Pass on your orders,” the Relief Commander said.

  “Post and orders, remain as directed,” the Retiring Sentinel said.

  “Orders acknowledged,” the Relieving Sentinel replied.

  The Relief Commander and Retiring Sentinel turned and walked past the Relieving Sentinel, now more officially designated the Tomb Guard for his hour long walk.

  The Tomb Guard marched 21 steps down the matted path, turned and faced east 21 seconds, turned and faced north 21 seconds, and marched up the matted path 21 steps.

  Coming to an abrupt halt, the Tomb Guard turned and executed a shoulder-arms movement. His M14 rifle positioned on his right shoulder, his forearm parallel to the ground, he symbolically positioned himself between the tomb memorial and any potential threat.

  The sounds of the city diminished. The hustle and bustle of the day gave way to the peacefulness and solace the country intended to provide its fallen heroes. Arlington National Cemetery was the ultimate testimony of respect given to those who served the country.

  The Tomb Guard faced the Memorial Amphitheatre. His walk would end in an hour and he would have two hours off before returning to perform another.

  Someone shouting a warning in the distance interrupted his early vigil. The voice was that of his Relief Commander. His indistinguishable protest laced with anger turned into a cry iced in terror.

  The Tomb Guard stopped breathing as his mind worked to make sense of the situation. Adrenalin shot up his spine as the pleas for help reverberated in his head. I must not leave my post, he repeatedly told himself, remembering every vow he every made to earn the honor as a Tomb Guard.

  The Relief Commander called the Tomb Guard’s name aloud with such grief the Guard was willing to accept the consequences of leaving his watch in order to save a friend.

  With his M14 firmly in hand, he ran at full speed in the charging position. His bayonet led the way.

  The living quarters used by the Tomb Guards in-between tours of the day hid under the steps of the amphitheater. The Relief Commander and the Retiring Sentinel engaged in a life and death struggle at the entrance against a horde of military soldiers dressed mostly in U.S. Army uniforms.

  The Tomb Guard turned the corner and almost tripped and fell as he slid to a stop.

  The Relief Commander had unsuccessfully prevented the advance of one of his attackers. His ceremonial sword had penetrated through its chest up to the hilt. The attacker lunged forward with its mouth unnaturally opened and ripped out a chunk of the Commander’s neck.

  The scream of the Commander went from a high-pitched screech to a gasp of gurgles. Blood jetted from the wound like a pulsating water fountain.

  The face of the attacker was ghastly white. Its eyes bulged as if they were so over-pressured that they might pop at any second. It was grinding the flesh of the Commander between its teeth in a robotic sort of way. It then went back for another mouthful as others surrounded the victim and tore into him like ravenous beasts.

  The Guard’s mind recovered from the initial shock and realized he was not up against ordinary men. There was something strange and inhuman about them. Their movements were slow and uncertain as if they didn’t have full control of their muscles. Their skin and eyes were that of someone no longer alive. The creatures were straight out of a horror movie, or at worst, the most terrifying nightmare hell had to offer. Yet, these men were moving, were killing, and were real.

  The Retired Sentinel wielded his M14 by the barrel’s end and split the skull of a Private First Class wide open. Green-yellow liquid oozed out and mingled with lumpy gray jelly matter. The Private fell to the ground and did not rise again.

  The Sentinel swung the rifle like a baseball bat in a 180 degree arc back and forth, taking one half-step backward on each return swing. His pursuers lumbered forward unconcerned with the consequences.

  It was then the Tomb Guard realized some in the murderous group were not even whole. Arm sleeves were hollow on some and chest cavities partially vacant on others. One had no arms at all. It led with its head forward and teeth gnashing. It dropped to the ground as the M14 crashed between its nose and forehead.

  Then, there were those with the leg injuries that were just catching up from behind. One poor soul had lost two legs and an arm. It was crawling toward the Tomb Guard using its only limb. It would stretch its arm out, place its hand firmly on the concrete, and slowly pull itself along. It gained eighteen inches at a time and left a trail of putrid liquid behind.

  The Retired Sentinel was backed into the living quarter’s doorway when the door opened and an emerging soldier said, “What the hell is all the racket out—”

  The Retreating Sentinel turned and ran for the open door. He knocked over the soldier in his haste and fell beside him to the floor. The pack of hungry intruders fell on top of the two keepers of the sacred duty and fed without mercy among cries of agony.

  The Tomb Guard repeated to himse
lf his vow over and over, “In the responsibility bestowed on me never will I falter.”

  The screams stopped and some of the undead emerged from the living quarters. The unquenchable hunger that burned inside could only be momentarily satisfied by the warm flesh of the living. With a sinking feeling the Tomb Guard knew he was next.

  He turned and ran, rounding the corner, and dashed back toward the memorial. The irony of the situation was bitter in his mind, It is he who commands the respect I protect. More of the vow that he took, and it was those he vowed to protect who were now out to kill him.

  A fallen hero pinned with the rank of Lance Corporal to its Marine dress blues stood in his path with arms outstretched and mouth gaped open like a hungry vulture. The Guard veered left avoiding it as more of the walking dead emerged from the patch of woods to the south of the memorial.

  He veered from his path again, but the dead now arrived from every side now. Arlington National Cemetery was the second largest cemetery in the United States. The country laid to rest more than five thousand departed each year. The recent wars provided many young men that now had reanimated to life.

  Standing like a beacon of last hope next to the memorial was a small green shack named ‘The Box.’ It offered little for protection as it only had three walls. But it did house a phone with a direct line to the living quarters, as well as to the outside world.

  The Guard arrived with just a few minutes of time left before the walking dead would reach him. In his haste, he dropped the receiver as he lifted it from its base. The receiver fell and stretched the cord until it went taut and then propelled back up. He dialed the front gate before grabbing the dangling receiver and shoved it to his ear. Come on, come on, come on, he thought as the phone rang and rang.

  He saw the living dead gather thicker in numbers and shamble clumsily his way. He had never felt hopelessness as he did in that moment. He couldn’t even remember the last movie he watched or the last book he read where there were no options for the hero to take other than death.

  More of his vow returned in his mind, Surrounded by well-meaning crowds by day, alone in the thoughtful peace of night. Oh, the irony! ‘The peace of the night’ no longer existed now that the dead were the ill meaning crowd for those that honored and protected them!

  The Tomb Guard bit his lip and let his M14 fall to the ground. He stepped out of The Box, took a deep breath, and stood in military salute as the hungry multitude approached him.

  He repeated his last vow with a strong voice, “This soldier will in honored glory rest under my eternal vigilance.”

  The fallen heroes descended and ripped the Tomb Guard to shreds. Only his spirit was left to guard in eternal vigilance.

  * * *

  The nation’s Capitol building’s primary function is to serve as the meeting place for the United States Congress. This night it would serve as the third and final location for the 2016 Presidential debate.

  The candidate’s security during the nation’s second depression had been stressed to the limit. Atlanta had burned for three days after the previous debate at Georgia State University. For safety and for economic reasons, it was decided the best course of action was keep it in Washington, DC. Tonight the debate would take place in the House of Representatives chamber.

  Rachel Maddew from CNBC was the debate’s moderator. It was set in the town meeting format. The moderator would ask prescreened questions that had been sent by citizens via email. Each candidate was allowed equal time to respond.

  General David Stilwell, the Republican nominee, ended his response to the first question and gave the floor to the President.

  The President, given the chance for a third term since Roosevelt, smiled and nodded toward Maddew. “It’s not surprising at all that the good General feels the way he does. He’s been in the military so long he doesn’t understand the good citizens of the United States as I do. We need to continue our change. Change will not come if we wait for some other person or some other time. We are the ones we've been waiting for. We are the change that we seek.

  “You have a choice. We can go back to the failed policies that got us here. Or you can get on board and with the change that I have promised. Change doesn’t come over night, and we are about to go over the hill and reap the benefits of my policies.

  “You. Me. All of us. We have an obligation together. Why? Because individual salvation depends on collective salvation.”

  Special Agent Darian Pastorek was the team leader in charge of the President’s security detail. He was out of view from the cameras and crowd, but could be at the President’s side in less than three seconds. There were over forty agents in the Capitol building that night. Some dressed as he, business suit and tie. The others wore business casual and sat among the citizen audience.

  Pastorek was tense. An increase of chatter had been coming through his earpiece over the past hour. There was a huge traffic jam on the Arlington National Memorial Bridge. The reports were vague and conflicting, not unusual for real time events. But the strangeness of eye witness reports of uniformed military gangs blocking the bridge and attacking the populace put him on edge.

  Pastorek was prepared to deal with known assailants, but this was unknown. Even though he was trained for any situation, the unknown made him anxious.

  Who were these attackers? Al-Queda posing as honorable service men? Did some drunken party go awry at Fort Myer? He couldn’t imagine committed men in the service of the United States military ever getting that out of control.

  His earpiece came alive again and brought him back to his job at hand. The code was given for breach of security in the front of the Capitol. Pastorek thought he could hear the faint reports of automatic weapons firing in the background.

  He made a hand motion, and his team of six went into action. This is what they had trained for.

  Pastorek and another special agent ran to the floor, each grabbed the president by an arm. With no words exchanged, the two briskly walked him toward an opened door in the back guarded by yet another team member. Pastorek’s Sig Sauer P229 was in his hand and ready to fire.

  The President’s feet touched the floor every fourth step the agents made. They half carried him and half pushed him for his safety.

  The crowd roared in protest at the abrupt departure of the President. Many looked at each other and at Rachel Maddew for some explanation.

  A special agent came to the side of General Stilwell, handgun drawn, ready to protect.

  The sight of the agent and the visible weapon moved the crowd out of their seats in panic. They began to trip over each other as open pathways quickly filled.

  As the doors leading outside flew open from the fleeing crowd, a mass of walking dead waited to greet them.

  Those that ran into the hungry corpses didn’t even realize what was happening. The shock of the attack only added to the mass confusion as the living tried to push their way to freedom.

  Special agent J.A. Engels was the team leader of General Stilwell’s security detail. He stood by Stilwell with his hand covering his right ear, muffing the outside noise from his earpiece.

  Stilwell looked at Engels for an assessment of the situation and the plan of action.

  Engels said, “They’re telling us to stay put . . . calling for reinforcements. I don’t know what the —”

  A wave of people in a doorway flowed back into the House Chamber. Screams of hysteria went up as a flood of decaying zombies entered the building.

  Engels chambered a round in his pistol, and yelled, “Nadler! Get your rookie ass over here with the ammo! I’m going to need more ammo!”

  Stilwell went down on one knee and pulled out a Colt Officers Model .45 from an ankle holster. It was cocked and locked, and ready for action.

  The cries of pain and anguish from the people being devoured alive were worse than anything the General had experienced on the battlefield. The walking dead were too tight in the crowd to risk taking a shot.

  “Damn it E
ngels, give me an update!” Stilwell said.

  “Nothing yet, sir,” Engels replied, keeping a steady bead on a walking corpse lumbering toward them.

  The crowd collapsed at another doorway. The savage carnivores entered in overwhelming numbers now.

  Maddew was in the greedy grasps of four female zombies. Each one held her by a limb eating her one mouthful at a time, working their way toward her torso.

  Special agent Nadler and Valin joined Engels and Stilwell on the stage. Engels squeezed the trigger on his pistol and sent a 124 grain +P bullet into the chest of the approaching zombie.

  The dead creature stopped at the impact, which left a hole in the front and blew rotting flesh out the rear. It continued its advance toward them.

  Engels looked at Nadler and Valin with surprise, and mouthed the words, Oh shit. Engels nodded toward Valin, who opened fire with his HK MP5 set at three round burst.

  The zombie absorbed the hits just as before. It only slowed him at the impact of the bullets.

  Engels raised his weapon and took careful aim. The round fired hit the zombie square between the eyes. Black-green pus-looking goo blew out the back of its skull. The walking dead creature fell limp to the ground.

  “So, this is how we have to play the game,” Engels said.

  More shots fired interrupted the feeding frenzy down on the floor. Some of the zombies that fought over scraps of flesh turned and headed for the stage.

  “Double shit,” this time Engels said it aloud.

  “Engels!” Stilwell shouted.

  “Orders just coming in now, sir. The President barely got away on Marine one. Outside is not secure. We’re told to wait for the Calvary,” Engels said. “Men, head shots only. Make ’em count. Watch for collateral damage.” Engels thought death would be the quickest way to bring blessed relief to the suffering crowd below. He was in no position to make that kind of call.

  The four stood side to side on the stage dividing the shooting area in quarters. Stilwell was the first to empty his clip. The small framed pistol only carried seven rounds, and the General didn’t carry a spare.